Sol, Chapter 3: The Urge


I’ve been out of shelter my whole life, but tonight I can feel it especially. Right up in my broken chest. The externally induced visions of the future I’ve experienced during the oppression of our sun have forced my awareness in the present under heavy stones. The alley I awoke in earlier was one of many in this megacity where faces are absent from for weeks. Earth is filled with the dead.

The machines keep ground-level sterile of any substance harmful to electronics. Although the abundance of ultradeadly human viruses are a product of them. The groundlevel survivors know how to avoid such things, but those people are few and far between. The salt-head cannibals roam the alley sections in packs where the drones fly seldom. My small weapon of choice is an old adamantium flat head screwdriver. Yet I’d rather use my hands. I need the ancient tool for the salt-heads in order to forgo impurities on my skin. The electromagnetic pulse from my palms passes through any sort of material, inflaming the electronics in its path.

Belief is not my provider, rather, protons destroying one another in my clutch give me this power. This source instills a sort of weakness in me, and it is also my strength. This way is practiced by none other than myself, on this planet at least. War is no longer unholy here on Earth for there are no more women nor children to have their lives unjustly and horrifically taken from them. The selfish ones have accomplished that, the capitalists have driven the lower-class underground.

The fiends dash around the corner to my left, but I could smell them long before I sensed anything else. In the matter of microseconds my metal slid through ear drums and into brains wasted by drugs. The drugs made by ECG which offered salvation at first to low-class people by making them hallucinate and think they are themselves corporations. The delusions devolve into a terrible blackness where there are no human traits left. They are called salt-heads for a reason. The flakes of filth shed constantly.

To be a corporation on Earth is looked on as the highest state of being. I am here to change that. The salt-heads are the corp people’s lowest form of defense, even lower than the machine drones which are cheaply mass produced by other machines. No, the salt-heads are even better for the selfish ones because the cannibals were once humans who paid to become corporate minions- although unknowingly. That is why I have no remorse shoving metal into a former female’s torso. I hold the others at bay with electricity, and I think of the oath I swore not to harm flesh by my provider. I make an exception when the innocent are in danger but not for myself. Using tools to off mindless cannibals is not glorious and it will not become an injustice in the eyes of my morality in that well on Titan many years from now. And so I immobilize the half dozen rotting creatures at my back, shutting down their nervous systems instantly.

It’s not long before the humming machines sense movement out in the open alley intersection. The generic drones are cumbersome, running off of inefficient Oil 2 Cells powering the rocket cylinders under the square shells that make up their ugly frames. An explosion shakes the fragmented concrete beneath my bare feet. The mechanical swarm approaches. The salt-heads scatter into the sewers and gutters. A burst of plasma emanates from my being and the swarm is rendered confused, they shoot their missiles at nothing in particular. Entire city blocks which were already facing decay become an obliterated waste. The miscalculating machines destroyed half of the swarm themselves.

I scream two syllables which have not been uttered on Earth for generations.

FREEDOM

Liberty from the waste. Choice has decimated passivity. My blue lips are hidden from our burning sun by my own blood and synthetic oil from above. I have chosen. My time has come to die. Death is more silent than space on this planet.

Inexplicable in material terms, the purple like aegis envelopes my physical structure. I can be nothing if I want to, and just like that, I vanish. Heaps of already rotten flesh and charred skeletons of machines are strewn about where I once was. The corporations say that heaven dissipated ages ago, yet they never deny the existence of hell. It would be foolish to deny such since hell is their domain. The Necros taught my provider through ancient knowledge; the kind of intrinsic wisdom that lies somewhere in biological constructs is not mere conjecture. Souls may not exist in this plane, this realm is devoid of most niceties unfortunately, yet there is a garden in our hearts. Some may call this bed of flowers an urge, a kind of feeling. Not all people have this, but the many that do may serve as proof that our universe is not doomed. To hell with predestination, liberty is humanity’s collective soul, freedom is the last hope for intelligent beings, without it, all sentient life will become inconsequential. The communes must prevail.

About Sean William Lynch
Sean William Lynch is a poet from New Jersey who was born in 1992. Lynch's first book of poems "the city of your mind" was published in 2013 by Whirlwind Press. Frank Sherlock, the poet laureate of Philadelphia, called Lynch's debut poetry book "visionary." CA Conrad claimed that the book was "marvelous!" S.W. Lynch's writing has been featured in numerous publications online and in print, including Milkfist, Poetry Quarterly, and Tincture Journal.

5 Responses to Sol, Chapter 3: The Urge

  1. You are a phenomenal writer!

  2. Like the screwdriver for a weapon. A tool used to build machines, and now used to destroy people who have been infected (figuratively) by machines and corporations.

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